


light on your fingertips

by owltrocious



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Consensual Violence, Hand & Finger Kink, Kink, M/M, Power Dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-07
Updated: 2017-02-07
Packaged: 2018-09-22 14:42:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9611954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owltrocious/pseuds/owltrocious
Summary: "I said hit me, Parrish," you mutter into the fabric.





	

 

"Come on, Parrish," you force through clenched teeth. His fingers twist and push, the base of his hand grinding against your balls, and it's _so fucking good_. His knuckles are thick. The stretch skitters sparks up the shivering tense line of your spine.

"Wait for it," he says.

You bury your face in the pillow and get cotton between your teeth, thighs aching, while he works at his leisure. Words pile up in the constriction of your throat but don't escape. It's terrible, it's astounding, the sole point of contact the invasive stroking of three of his fingers buried palm-deep inside.

Quiet but sure, he murmurs, "Tell me again."

"Get fucked, you said no—" you snarl, hiding your shame-hot face.

Adam doesn't pause. He crams his fingers in so deep and fast you shout and your hips jump. He follows that flinch and the broad knuckles of his palm push threatening at your hole. Your moan is filthy, incandescent. The first real thrust he makes scatters all of that resistance—his free hand grips your hip, searing hot, and he fucks his fingers into you with unerring force and intention. He's making you take it, all at once, his breathing loud and rough over the slick slap of his hand and your flesh.

"You sure?" he says.

"Fuck, just do it, _Adam_ ," you manage. It would sound demanding to anyone else but he hears the words you mean to say.

His free hand loosens its grip and he kneels up behind you. Your breath stops, you go blind with hungry need for a split second before a tentative smack lands on your ass. Blue has slapped you harder in jest. Your snort a laugh and flex your grip on the pillow. He huffs.

"I said hit me, Parrish," you mutter into the fabric.

In hindsight, the second strike is retaliation. In the moment, when Adam cracks his palm on the soft underside of your left asscheek, you fucking _howl_. The burn of it flares into the clench of your jaw and the spasming tightness of your hole around his fingers. He traces ticklish over the spot, the delicacy of it bringing another moan spilling up from your chest because it hurts, it hurts, you love it.

You don't have to tell him—he does it again, crash of his broad calloused palm on the back of your thigh, a weighty impact that makes saliva pool in your mouth and tears spring up in your eyes. He's stopped fucking you though he doesn’t pull out, holding steady while he strikes you, again, again, covering your thigh in tracks of fire. The next hit on the meat of your ass jostles his fingers and you shove back onto them, hips working.

"Ronan," Adam says, a breathless little snarl that tangles thorns in your guts.

You plant a heel on the mattress and push. He follows the sudden shift and grabs your ankle, drags you onto your back. His face is flushed and his mouth parted. His briefs cling obscenely: heavy outline of his dick trapped against his hip, full swell of his balls held tight to his body. Fumbling, out of your head and shaken to your toes, you wrap your grip around his wrist and pull his reddened hand up to your cheek. His fingers and palm cover half of your face; you stare at him, panting, and see his hesitation.

He watches, methodical, and taps. The hint of impact on the softness of your cheek is enough to jackknife your spine into an arch. He's hit you harder before, roughhousing, but this is different. You turn your face against the pillow, bracing, and he snaps his fingers in a whip-quick slap onto the same spot. Your belly aches with arousal, your dick dripping persistent tacky puddles on your skin. He starts to flex his fingers, half-buried in your ass, again. It wasn’t as if you'd forgotten he was fucking you but it hadn't been at the forefront of your attention. Now, it is.

The problem is how bad you want him to just go for it. He'd laughed about the initial request, said _fucking really, you want me to spank you_ , and you'd corrected him, _no, I want you to hit me_. The coil of an impending orgasm winds tighter at each slide and press of him spearing you open.

"Is this good," he says, and it's bleeding-dark, half a command and half a plea.

 "Harder," you groan.

He breathes in, lifts his hand from your face, and you have to close your eyes because if you watch his elbow pitch back you're going to climb out of your own skin before he follows through. The fingers fucking you curl up hard, forceful, enough to shock a whine out of you—and pain explodes across your jaw and cheek and a little clip on the side of your nose where he aimed crooked. The wildness of it pulls your hips up against his hand like a marionette on strings. You let out a wretched sound, and he strokes your dick once, twice, then you're coming, face throbbing and mouth open.

When he hits you again, your own spunk filthy-wet on his hand and spattering from the impact, it rocks your head to the side. Another powerful pulse runs from your stuffed-full ass through your belly and you shout through clenched teeth. You taste salt.

"Shit," he gasps.

The sound of fabric and skin-on-skin and he's coming on your hip and thigh almost instantly. You slit one eye to watch him shake, because the other is gummed closed with come and you know it'll burn. He eases his fingers out, finally, and it aches. His hands tremble when he uses the corner of the sheet to clean the mess off of you right after, and his touch is tender-soft on the swollen hot line of your jaw.

"Are you okay?" he says.

The inside of your mouth is bleeding.

"Fucking great," you say.

           

 

 


End file.
